


Fell Winter

by kuiske



Series: Close [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ace!Thorin, Canon-Typical Violence, Fell Winter, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starvation, Swearing, deliberate disregard of canon date of fell winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7025083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>When Thorin dreamt of death he always dreamt of fire.</i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>That year death was the bitter cold that crept silently from the North one night late in summer and crystallized in millions of tiny diamonds on unharvested fields.</i>
  </p>
</blockquote>The Exiles of Erebor have been settled on the Blue Mountains for decades when a sudden frost kills the crops all over the surrounding countryside. Those who can must journey south in search of work and food, and those who cannot must face the famine and the wolves that arrive in the wake of the snows. <p>As the winter closes its fist around them Thorin Oakenshield is vividly reminded of a part in their lives he'd hoped to never live through again, and what follows will threaten to destroy his relationship with Dwalin and shatter what remains of the very foundations of his life.</p><p> <br/><span class="small">Part of an on-going series but can be read as a stand-alone. Though I recommend that you read <b>Midsummer</b> before this fic, seeing as it's the first half of the prologue. Also the prologue can be read on its own as a mostly fluffy oneshot.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Summertime

It was a well-acknowledged truth among all the dwarrow-kind that each of Mahal’s children was made unique with their own talents and preferences, but above all they were made with deep-ingrained thirst to work and create, to shape the world into something it hadn’t been before. There were those among them who ached for a hammer and hot molten metal, or a mattock and deep mines veined with ore and precious stones, or the tiny precise tools of a gem-cutter and a jeweller refining those stones until they shone beneath the earth like the stars on the sky. As far as most among the other races knew that was the whole sum of dwarven interest and talent, and though they were mistaken in their assessment (as they usually were) there were few dwarves ever born with any desire to correct them. If it pleased the elves and men to believe that kingdoms could be run with smiths alone, without those with equal skill for leather-working and weaving and glass-blowing and ceramics and cooking and brewing and healing and scholarship and building and wood-working and sewing… Well, more the fools were they, because of course they had masters of all those crafts, and many more besides. Frankly, the one belief more singularly idiotic than thinking they were all of the same craft was the occasionally up-cropping conviction among some men or elves or wizards or even halflings that the inner workings of the dwarven kingdoms and the details of their crafts would be in any manner at all theirs to know. Curiosity was the soul of creation, of course, but those overly curious about their secrets were usually firmly instructed to take their curiosity elsewhere while they still had health enough left to do so.

Of course not all creation was limited to their hands and minds. 

Just like it was with any other craft, bearing and raising children was something not all had the ability or the interest to take part in. Glóin and Freddli, for example, had one child and didn’t seem to desire more. In truth they were both at least as wed to their crafts as they were to each other and some had been surprised by their decision to bring even little Gimli into the world. Bombur and Hedra were a rare couple to be possessed of every necessary quality required for a whole brood of dwarflings, and the Maker in his wisdom had seen fit to bless them with such. Thorin himself, on the other hand, had neither the ability to bear children nor any desire whatsoever to partake in fathering them. His childlessness might have been something of a problem if not for Dís’ children, but as it were even those who were the most concerned with the line of succession to the Kingdom that had been stolen from them were content with the knowledge that his sister’s sons would be his heirs. It was probably for the best for everyone involved, and not only for the sake of his personal reluctance. Despite being very fond of children Thorin felt like he couldn’t with good conscience claim much innate talent in handling them. Though when it came to his nephews, unwavering devotion seemed to make up for a certain lack of skill, or at least Fíli and Kíli appeared willing to forgive him for his shortcomings as an uncle in exchange for knowledge that they could usually convince him to tell _one more_ story before bedtime.

Or to get him and Dwalin to ignore their hangovers and accompany them to the river while their mother slept off hers, Thorin smiled fondly, looking upon the haphazard pile of sleeping dwarflings exhausted by their raucous play. And what a blessing was the sight after everything they’d suffered since the Dragon! Their children were all the future of their people and more rare and precious than all the treasures their Mountains could ever bring forth.

Not that the Blue Mountains had much in the way of treasure. The rock yielded coal and iron and little else, and none of it belonged to the Ereborean exiles. They had been allowed to settle on the empty land next to the existing Broadbeam and Firebeard settlements, but the land was not theirs and it never would be. As much had been made clear in the terms on which they’d been allowed to stay at all. All the seven clans had bled out most of their goodwill for the Longbeards before the gates of Khazad-Dûm, and there had been some fairly heavy hints that they should be grateful that the terms for their settlement had been as kind as that. Thorin knew that all things considered it was more than fair, and that he _should_ feel gratitude, but he chafed bitterly at the thought of his people toiling in a foreign land just to scrape up enough coin to put food on the table. Fled to the west like _elves_. Their alternatives were far worse though, so in the west was where they’d built their houses, of wooden logs first, and then of granite blocks, and slowly as the years turned to decades they'd even began to carve some structures into the mountainside. They built friendships with the local dwarves as well, and the threat of being told to leave though never gone grew smaller, and as hard as life could sometimes be it was easier and more comfortable by far in Ered Luin than it had been on the road.

That was when he could bring himself to feel grateful of where they were now, when he thought about what their life had been like travelling the Middle-Earth. At least there were mountains here, and it wasn’t easily shaken, the memory of constant movement and uncertainty and danger and pitiful poverty and hunger beyond the point of starvation at the worst of times. Thorin reminded himself often that he would gladly suffer the humiliation of being looked down on by men who had a need for a blacksmith, as long as it meant no more starving children, no more of their kind cut down in ambushes on the road. Azanulbizar had been a bloodbath he’d never be able to forget, but neither would he forget the nigh constant trickle of blood and unadorned graves they’d left across the continent. Given time, an unstopped scrape would bleed a body as dry as an orc sword carving it up from navel to throat, and they’d had _decades_ ’ worth of small cuts by the time they settled in the west. It didn’t come to him easily, far from it actually, but he could suffer some shame and degradation to stop that bleeding.

He _must_.

But he could also remember how much _better_ their lives had once been, and curse be on the day when he’d ever even in his mind bow down and surrender in the face of murderers and thieves who had driven them out of their Kingdom. Or Kingdoms, for even as the Dragon resided inside the sacred halls of Erebor, so did the Durin’s Bane continue to defile Khazad-Dûm and the orcs Mount Gundabad. None were less theirs for having been stolen and never would be.

Thorin glanced at Dwalin who was finally pulling himself out of the river. Dwalin firmly believed in submerging himself in cool water as a hangover cure, but now he’d apparently had enough; he shook water off his hair and beard and plopped down on the bank next to him to dry himself off. 

Thorin had to suppress a sigh.

In face of everyone and everything they had lost he shouldn’t have had longing left for anything less dire. His feelings for Dwalin should’ve paled in comparison. But try as he might he couldn’t quite manage to push them aside. 

It felt almost criminal sometimes, to look at all he _did_ share with his best friend and wish he could get back all the long embraces they’d shared as children, and have more than that besides. They didn’t touch each other very much anymore; that had fallen away with time and been trod to the dust and the mud of the long road to the west. It was _idiocy_ to reveal your attachments among potentially hostile people – you might as well paint your loved ones red as targets – and although they’d been settled for decades now, the habit against careless displays of affection persisted. Yet the desire persisted as well and seemed to grow stronger over time. He knew Dwalin would’ve obliged him if he’d just asked for more than hands brushing together briefly, or the occasional forehead touch, or an almost stolen hug and a playful wrestle match after a drink or two, but what right did he have to ask him for more?

And how, _how_ were you supposed to ask your friend to touch you just because you felt a bone-deep ache for him that just might have been love?

Dwalin had never shared his reluctance for bed-play either and he had been a popular guest in the furs of both dwarrows and dams for decades now, though none of those visits had lasted longer than a night or few at most. It was well within his rights and Thorin would pat his back and tease him about it and bite his tongue against all the complaints he had no right whatsoever to make. He would never deny Dwalin his fun, and if it happened that one of those night-long flings turned out to become a life-long partner, well, no one deserved it more. 

Still, whenever Dwalin found someone in the pub who’d climb into his lap and later into his bed, the emotion that nearly overwhelmed Thorin definitely wasn’t happiness on his behalf.

He wanted to scream even as he smiled and told Dwalin to go and have fun; he wanted to _scream_ , burning with all-consuming, vicious jealousy.

 _Look at me!_

_You come back here, and you look at **me** like that!_

Of course he hadn’t done anything of the sort, and neither had Dwalin for that matter.

Until last night. Until stumbling back from a party almost too drunk to walk – demonstrably too drunk to walk without falling over – when Dwalin had looked at him exactly like that. 

And then he had kissed him.

 _Finally_.

It was his first thought, but even through the haze of alcohol the second one was stronger.

 _No. Please don’t_.

And he’d turned his head aside.

Thorin had been resolved to forget it and pretend nothing had happened, except that...

_“Do you want to talk about it?”_

_“About what?”_

_“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Thorin.”_

_“Dwalin…”_

Except that Dwalin wanted to _talk_ , and every single word he spoke of how he wanted him, _wanted_ him, felt like a death-stroke for their friendship because that wasn’t the way Thorin wanted him back.

He didn’t want Dwalin’s tongue inside his mouth or his hand inside his trousers; he didn’t want _any_ of that, and never would. The mere idea made him uncomfortable and vaguely nauseous if he thought of it for too long.

But he did want.

He wanted Dwalin’s touch, he wanted his arms around him, his hands in his hair, his body next to him like on those long nights on the road they’d spent huddled together against the cold.

(Not enough.)

Except that...

_“I’d have… this, if you want. Just this. You,” Dwalin said, laying a hand on Thorin’s shoulder gingerly like he expected him to shake it off. ”I mean, this is good for you? Isn’t it?”_

_Thorin turned to look at him incredulously._

_**If** he wanted? Dwalin was serious and he could have this, was it **good** being offered all he’d dreamed of? He nearly burst out to hysterical laughter, or maybe it was going to be tears, maybe he was about to cry; he didn’t know how to feel about the flood of relief and joy surging through him when he’d prepared for the worst that could happen. He leaned against Dwalin like a thousand times before and reached to take his hand because he **could** , and he had to force his voice to remain even._

_“Yeah. This is good.”_

Except that Dwalin was willing to stay with him, share his bed and just _sleep_ with him, and Thorin was so giddy he almost felt like drunk again.

“When…?” he asked, hoping that Dwalin would catch his meaning.

“You got something against tonight?”

“No,” Thorin smiled. “My bed?”

“Probably for the best. It’s wider. And besides,” Dwalin grinned. “There’s a possibility the sheets won’t smell like stale beer.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it if Dís commandeered it yesterday,” Thorin grinned back. “But the wider still stands.”

“Balin will be overjoyed. He complains I snore.”

“You do,” Thorin nudged him with his elbow. “Like a thunderstorm.”

“It’s the broken nose,” Dwalin shrugged. “And I’m not _that_ bad.”

Thorin didn't deem it necessary to validate that with an answer.

“I’m _not_. Besides you’re the one asking to sleep with me, you can’t be too bothered.”

“I don’t mind the noise,” Thorin said and stretched, popping a joint in his back. “What do you think they’ll say to this?”

“One way to find out,” Dwalin said and laughed suddenly. Cackled really. “I sort of want to tell Glóin first, before he hears from anyone else.”

“Now that’s just _mean_ ,” Thorin said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Are you really going to force our poor little cousin to act like he cares about this?”

“If I catch him with uncle Gróin he’s going to have to say how happy he’s for us _and_ sit tight while we reminisce about how we met.”

“You’re evil,” Thorin said admiringly. “And what do you mean _met_ , didn’t your parents bring you along for a visit a few hours after I’d been born? You were barely a toddler, don’t tell me you remember that.”

“ _I_ don’t, but uncle does. It’ll do Glóin good to listen to someone else’s baby stories for once.”

Perhaps the thought of their perpetually disgruntled cousin being forced to sit through the origins of other people’s relationships wasn’t as funny as that, but they collapsed on the ground with uncontrollable laughter all the same. Thorin curled up in a fit of helpless giggles accented with winces of and groans of pain as his headache returned with a vengeance, and he tried to steady his breathing by planting his face to the grass. It turned out to be surprisingly helpful, if only because it meant he wasn’t able to look Dwalin in the face, which would’ve without doubt only made the situation worse.

“Uncle?”

Thorin looked up and found Fíli and Kíli staring at him and Dwalin a little uncertainly, like they weren’t sure whether they should get worried or to jump right in. He had to admire their restraint; a mere year ago there would have been no hesitation and he and Dwalin would’ve been at risk from getting kicked in the face in the process of forming of a pile. Behind his nephews the other dwarflings wore rather alarmed and vaguely scandalised expressions. To think of it, Thorin supposed he and Dwalin _had_ been loud enough to wake them from their nap, and they _did_ make for a vaguely bizarre sight, especially given that most people outside their immediate family had never seen them in such an undignified situation. To think of it, most of those dwarflings hadn’t necessarily ever heard Thorin laugh out loud.

Ah well, live and learn…

He stood up and shook spare bits grass from his hair as nonchalantly as he could, and glanced around looking for possible threats on pure instinct before spreading his arms as a signal for Fíli and Kíli. It was all the invitation they needed before barrelling into him and Thorin scooped them up, each on one arm.

“You’re getting too heavy for this,” he complained.

His comment was met with a duet of protests and four small but surprisingly strong hands clamping onto his arms, and in Fíli’s case also into his hair. Smart lad. Thorin could hardly change his mind about giving them a free ride when he had a nephew attached to his braids.

“It’s getting about suppertime,” Thorin said to the dwarflings who were currently not clinging on to him after glancing at the sky. “You might want to head back to parents now.”

Normally announcing the end of playtime would’ve been met with a chorus of grumbles even when it was him doing the announcing - well, except from little Ori who tended to blush and mutter only either “Yes, sir” or “No, sir” whenever he was directly addressed by Thorin - but right now even the most contrary of the dwarflings had to admit that their stomachs complained louder than their mouths ever could have. The prospect of food had the entire horde of them sprinting towards the village and Fíli and Kíli slid down and went with them, laughing wildly as they took off.

Thorin and Dwalin glanced at each other before coming to a wordless agreement to follow after them at a _much_ calmer pace.

*

“Right,” Dwalin said as he kicked his boots off by the door of the house Thorin shared with Dís and the lads. “Come here you two, what’s that about, leaving your poor old cousin behind like that?”

He marched to Fíli and Kíli who were just finishing up setting the table, snatched them up and hoisted them both shrieking in the air. He feigned a stagger under their weight, grinning at Thorin who’d walked in right behind him.

“What can you tell, you were right. These two _are_ getting too big to carry around like this,” Dwalin looked at Fíli and shifted his hold on him a little. “Wanna fly, lad?”

“FLY!” Fíli yelled, and Dwalin tossed him at Thorin, effortlessly despite his earlier posturing.

Thorin caught his nephew in his arms and barely had enough time to put him down before Kíli, screaming that he wanted to fly too, followed after and whacked Thorin in the face trying to flap his hands like wings.

“Watch it,” he chided, though the edge of the admonishment was rather dulled by Dwalin and Dís howling with laughter at the sight.

“You’ll be staying for dinner, of course,” Dís said to Dwalin once she got her mirth back under control.

“Depends who’s cooked that,” Dwalin quipped.

“Balin,” Dís said. “So no worries, it’s edible. But of course you’d eat it no matter what ‘cause you’re polite and besides I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn down food.”

“True. But it’s always good to know which sort of battle you’re marching into.”

“From what I heard you marched head-first into a beer barrel last night,” Balin said wryly, emerging from the pantry with a few loaves of bread to mop up the stew with. “Which I, for one, am inclined to believe since I notice Thorin didn’t exactly make it home.”

“Neither did you,” Thorin pointed out mildly. “Dís, who slept in my bed?”

“I did, and the lads,” she said. “Can’t really lend out your bed to people without permission, but I _can_ lend mine, and I can take yours. What is yours is also mine, and so forth, big brother.”

“I think that was intended to be a reference for standing together against enemies, and not an excuse for you to loan my things or eat from my plate,” Thorin grumbled.

“Technicality,” she snorted in the same time as Balin said: “Debatable.”

“ **As the blood in your veins is mine, so are your foes and hardships also mine, and with my honour and my axe I shall stand with you against them** ,” Dwalin recited in Khuzdul. “Sounds fairly straightforward to me.”

“Depends how you’re interpreting hardship and foes, you see. A case could be, and has been made that it extends to mean slightly more mundane difficulties as well,” Balin smiled complacently and gave Dís and his own little brother pointed looks. “Though _admittedly_ this reading is most popular among bothersome younger siblings.”

“I bow before greater wisdom and age,” Dís said without sounding remotely as respectful as her words. “Also mind you, I _did_ offer you a bed to sleep in, but you insisted you’d make it back to your place just fine…”

“Perhaps I did,” Balin said serenely. “Perhaps I simply came back early in the morning and dozed off in the chair waiting for you younglings to wake.”

Dwalin snorted.

“As long as we’re on the subject, brother,” he said, handing out plates of stew to everyone before sitting down next to Thorin to eat as well. “How’d you feel about not having to complain about my snoring from now on?”

“Were you planning on giving up sleep?” Balin asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Nay. I was planning on giving up sleeping in my own bed,” Dwalin said and put his arm around Thorin to make his point.

Balin’s other eyebrow hiked up as well until they both vanished into his hairline. Thorin could feel his ears burning already, and he blushed even redder when Balin turned his gaze from Dwalin to him.

“I see,” he said, tone indistinguishable for a while before his face broke into a smile. “I believe congratulations are in order. You do know he snores, don’t you, laddie?”

“I am aware,” Thorin said, still blushing. Then he turned to look at Dís who was staring at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “If you don’t mind…? This is your house too-”

“Oh, hush,” Dís cut him off and punched him in the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, nadad, you surprised me is all. I didn’t think you were interested.”

“I’m not. We talked about it.”

“Took you long enough, too,” she said brusquely and threw a meaningful glance at Dwalin.

Dwalin merely grunted in response and tore a loaf of bread in two while Thorin yanked Dís’ braid and told her to behave in the company of her elders. Fíli and Kíli seemed to finally have processed the news; they abandoned their dinners as one and assaulted Dwalin with a virtual barrage of questions about what him getting together with their uncle would mean. Most importantly, what it would mean in regards to Dwalin’s semi-frequent habit of bringing them something sweet whenever he came over to their house now that he’d be _living_ over at their house. Dís looked at Thorin like she dearly wished to retaliate appropriately to the hair-pulling, but in the end decided not to in the name of not giving her children any ideas. Instead she told Fíli and Kíli sternly to stop pestering Dwalin and eat their food and vowed revenge to Thorin under her breath quietly enough that he was the only one to hear.

*

Thorin helped Dís ready Fíli and Kíli for bed while Dwalin and Balin walked back to their house, Balin to stay and Dwalin to fetch some things he thought he might need in the morning, and more importantly, to share some words in private with his brother. Thorin had a similar sort of conversation with Dís when the boys were too busy hiding under the bed in an attempt to dodge bedtime to pay any attention to them, or even to wonder why they hadn’t been immediately discovered like they were every other evening.

“Were you planning on moving out?” Dís asked nonchalantly, though squaring her shoulders as if steeling for a blow. “There’s room enough here and the lads will miss you, but if you’d rather-”

“Not going anywhere,” Thorin cut her off and pulled her into a hug without further ceremony. “What would I even do without you, _namadith_ , where would I go?”

Dís didn’t answer. She hugged him back and buried her face into his chest like she’d done when she’d been a child seeking comfort from the world that had fallen apart around her. Thorin could hardly blame her now any more than he had back then. His own nightmares were full of fire and bloodshed, but Dís couldn’t have remembered much of the chaos of death and flames that had been the Dragon-attack. She definitely hadn’t seen their Grandfather or brother fall, and _no one_ had seen their Father disappear. For the poor child she had been it must’ve all seemed one and the same. A different sort of nightmare: her family disappeared; they left and they never came back. 

There wasn’t much Thorin could do against her instinctive conviction that it was all going to happen again, other than to hold her a little tighter. And stay.

Eventually Dís exhaled heavily and took a step back. She kissed him on the cheek before going to extract her children from under the bed, without a word as if the previous moment had never happened at all.

*

It was Dís’ turn to tell the bedtime story but Thorin stayed to listen, leaning on the door-frame of the room she shared with the boys, though he soon drifted off into his thoughts regarding their new living arrangements. They troubled him more than he had cared to say aloud during the dinner. 

For sure Balin had insisted he didn’t actually mind sleeping alone for the time being, and for the time being he was probably being truthful about it too, and they’d agreed he would be joining them for breakfast tomorrow and whenever he felt like it in the future, but still… It wasn’t common for dwarves to live alone. They belonged with their families and friends and most of their kind would eventually go a little stir-crazy without people around them. Perhaps it was a good thing that Balin had always tended to be slightly more independent and solitary than average. A good thing, Thorin grimaced as he went through their personal finances in his head, seeing as their house was not big enough for them all to live in and they would need time to gather enough funds to build an extension. A year at least, and that was him being far more optimistic in his estimation than he usually had an inclination for, but it couldn’t be helped.

He heard Dwalin turning the key in their front door and stepping in just as Dís was finishing up her story. Normally she would’ve crept out when the boys nodded off, to spend the rest of the evening mending clothes with Thorin or maybe stop by at the pub, but the last night’s heavy drinking and insufficient rest were still weighing down on all of them, so they’d be turning in with the children.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Thorin asked Dwalin pointedly when he saw him waiting for him instead of just letting himself into his room on his own.

“Thought it’d be appropriate,” Dwalin said, only half-joking.

“Well,” Thorin smiled, brushing their shoulders together as he walked past him. “Do come in then.”

“You’d make an appalling character in a faery story,” Dwalin teased when they changed into their night-clothes. “Don’t you know that’s how you can tell that someone’s an evil shape-shifter, they’ve got to be invited in?”

“Invited into the _dwelling_ not into the room,” Thorin corrected and lay down on the bed, leaving space for Dwalin between himself and the wall. “As for the rest… eh, I’m not getting up again, I think I’ll take the risk. Though now that you mention it I _can_ see how you could pass for a faery…”

Dwalin smacked him on the head and made a point of crawling right over him to get to his spot. Thorin considered hitting him with a pillow, but decided to spare the pillow and jabbed Dwalin in the ribs instead. He felt oddly childish all of a sudden, perhaps because they had both been children the last time he could remember them sharing a bed for no other reason that they could and wanted to.

It wasn’t like Dwalin was doing much in the way of dispelling his mental image either.

“Want some?” he grinned at Thorin and pulled out a small bundle of brown sugar biscuits he’d been hiding in his sleeve.

“You’re impossible,” Thorin said and snatched himself a couple of them. “And you didn’t have to.”

“’Course I did. Can’t come to your bed empty handed, can I now?” Dwalin said through a mouthful of biscuit. “It’s a tradition.”

“Tradition would’ve been sneaking into the kitchen and stealing them,” Thorin pointed out. Then he took a second look at the smug smile on Dwalin’s face. “Don’t tell me…”

“Fine, I won’t,” Dwalin said cheekily. “And I suppose they’re technically half mine and it’s not exactly hard sneaking past Balin, but it’s a _tradition_. And they taste better this way.”

“Delinquent,” Thorin accused fondly.

“At least I’m a _successful_ one.” Dwalin said pointedly. “Unlike some I could mention…”

“That was over a century ago, will you let it go already?” Thorin groaned.

“No.”

Thorin was well aware he wasn’t at his most threatening when lying on a bed munching biscuits, but he was still fairly certain that the look he fixed on Dwalin would’ve quelled most dwarves. Unfortunately Dwalin wasn’t most dwarves and thus wasn’t so affected. He simply laughed and deliberately flicked a crumb at Thorin’s nose.

“That’s it.” Thorin said in the tone he usually reserved for commanding warriors and dwarflings. “Playtime’s over. Go to sleep.”

“Make me.”

“Behave.”

“ _Make me_.”

Dwalin stretched ostentatiously and looked Thorin squarely in the eye as he flicked another crumb at him, wearing a wide grin that was nothing short of a challenge. For a fleeting moment Thorin considered being the adult in the situation. Then he sighed dramatically and launched himself at Dwalin, scattering the remaining biscuits as he scrambled to get him in to a headlock. He _almost_ succeeded too, but Dwalin twisted in his grasp just enough to prop his feet against the wall for support before throwing himself back against Thorin with all his weight. The bed might have been wide enough for two grown dwarves to sleep in without trouble but it certainly wasn’t wide enough for this; they went over the side and fell on the floor with a crash that would’ve rattled the windows out of their frames had the house had any windows to rattle in the first place.

Thorin closed his eyes and let his head drop against the floor, groaning as he thwacked Dwalin half-heartedly on the chest. So _maybe_ he’d still had his arm around his neck when they went down, but really that was _no_ reason for him to fall right on top of him. And if crushing him was _absolutely_ imperative then the least Dwalin could’ve done would've been to make some effort to get off him as soon as possible. Preferably immediately. Bastard.

“What the fuck are you two doing?!”

Thorin opened his eyes and found himself looking up at Dís. So the thudding in his head that had sounded remarkably like irritated footsteps had, in fact, been precisely that.

“Sleeping?” Dwalin offered cheerfully.

“Really?” Dís said much too sweetly. ”Well, in that case I guess it’s about time you woke up again.”

Then she snatched a pitcher from the washstand by the door and upended it on them both.

Thorin sputtered indignantly as the water hit him in the face, but at least the attack finally drove Dwalin up, so he was free to lunge forward to wrap his arms around Dís’ legs and bring her down - on top of himself. It was worth it though, since he managed to scramble from under her and pin her down just for long enough to let the water from his soaked hair dribble on her face before she kneed him in the stomach and pushed him off.

“Brat,” Thorin grumbled and shook his head like a pony, spraying water everywhere and drawing indignant protests both from Dís and from Dwalin who’d retreated to the bed rather than take part in the scuffle between the siblings.

“Arsehole,” Dís retorted and wiped her face on her sleeve. “Seriously though. What the hell were you doing in here, you’re almost three hundred years old combined, you’d think you don’t need bars around your bed anymore.”

“We were discussing the finer points of table manners and bed time,” Thorin said airily.

“Your brother’s a killjoy,” Dwalin tattled to Dís in a tremendously loud whisper.

“You’re telling me,” Dís whispered back quite as loudly.

Thorin sighed heavily. Dwalin might’ve been technically older than him, but sometimes it was _glaringly_ obvious that he was very much of a younger sibling. He spotted a biscuit that miraculously had been neither trampled on nor drenched and picked it off the floor.

“Peace?” he said, offering it to Dís.

“Do I look like I eat off the floor?!”

“ _Yes_.”

Dís glared at him.

“Well, you are not wrong,” she said, snatching the biscuit from his hand and stuffing it in her mouth. “But on principle I’m insulted.”

“Fair enough,” Thorin conceded. He stood up and pulled Dís on her feet as well. “Sorry about the noise. Go back to sleep, we’ll be quiet.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t wake the lads,” she said and nudged him with her elbow. “Also that was one great opening you gave me, but I’m gonna let it slide this _once_.”

Dís slipped out of the door and closed it behind her before Thorin had the chance to think of a suitable reply. He shook his head a little and went back to bed, grimacing involuntarily as his bruised back twinged.

“You aren’t really hurt, are you?” Dwalin asked.

“Nah,” Thorin said. “I think I get worse from Fíli and Kíli at least once a month.”

“That’s not saying much, those two are worse than a mountain troll on a good day.”

Thorin laughed quietly and burrowed deeper into his nest of blankets and furs. Both he and Dwalin were definitely still on the damp side, but at least Dwalin had made himself useful by gathering up the remaining biscuits. They’d both slept on nastier things than a few crumbs, but not bothering would’ve been a dreadful waste of baked goods. Thorin smiled at Dwalin fondly and was a little surprised when he didn’t return it. Dwalin looked oddly apprehensive all of a sudden.

“Did you-“ he began hesitantly. “I mean I know you said you only wanted to sleep-”

“Bit late for that.”

Dwalin huffed with amusement.

“Aye, well... I just meant if you just want sleep that’s okay, more than- but I... Could I?”

Dwalin raised his hand to where Thorin could see it, clearly waiting for permission to touch.

The change in the mood was almost physically tangible and it wiped away all traces of childishness from the moment immediately.

“Yes,” Thorin said softly.

Dwalin brushed his fingers against Thorin's cheek so carefully one might’ve thought he expected him to shatter with the touch. Thorin slid his hand to his waist and tugged him gently closer and Dwalin’s serious expression cracked into a smile. He put his arm around Thorin and nudged their foreheads together, stroking his back gently and mindful of his bruises. 

“You can ask,” Thorin offered after a while. “What you’d like.”

Dwalin pulled back so he could look him in the face. He seemed to be trying to decide what to say.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he admitted a little ruefully.

“Not-“ Thorin stiffened and raised his hand to cover his lips on reflex. “Not on mouth.”

“I won’t,” Dwalin said, and for all the world it sounded like a vow. “I won't. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Thorin said. He touched his lips with his fingertips before pressing them lightly on Dwalin’s. “It’s okay.” 

Dwalin took his hand and kissed his fingers almost reverently, then his knuckles, one by one. Thorin couldn’t help being a little amused when he turned his hand around and kissed his palm and wrist as well.

“Really?”

“Really,” Dwalin smiled. “You’ve beautiful hands.”

Thorin felt colour rise to his cheeks, and oh but it wasn’t _fair_ that Dwalin could say things like that earnestly and without a trace of abashment when he was blushing just to hear it. He pulled his hand free and cupped Dwalin’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb before he slid his hand lower and tugged his beard tentatively. Dwalin closed his eyes and leaned into the touch with a pleased groan, so Thorin sank his hand to his beard properly this time. It felt lovely to card his fingers through the coarse hair, and lovelier to caress the sensitive skin beneath it and have Dwalin push his face into his hands like a cat and relax completely. 

Just when he was beginning to think that Dwalin might’ve dozed off he opened his eyes and gave him a drowsy smile.

“What’d you like me to do for you?” he murmured.

“You’re already doing it,” Thorin replied evasively. “You don’t- you didn’t even have to agree to this at all.”

“I like to think I’ve better manners than just falling asleep on you,” Dwalin teased. “And to hear you speak you’d think it wasn’t me making an idiot of myself over this. Must’ve imagined it. I’m relieved, it wasn’t my brightest moment.”

“’Fraid no,” Thorin said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Definitely happened.”

“Dammit. Oh well…” Dwalin exhaled dramatically and nudged Thorin with his nose. “’C’mon, tell me. What do you want?”

Thorin considered insisting he needed nothing at all, and he might have, but he was beginning to feel tired for real now and if he was honest with himself he rather longed to be held. He pushed at Dwalin’s shoulder to guide him to his back and rested his head gingerly on his chest.

“Could you just...?”

“’Course.”

Dwalin wrapped his arms around him and pulled him properly on top of himself. Thorin shuffled a little to get to a more comfortable position that was hopefully comfortable for Dwalin as well and nuzzled shamelessly against his shirt. His weight didn’t seem to bother Dwalin at all; he had a hand in his hair and the other one rubbing small circles on his back. The pleasure of being touched was almost painful. It was an ache radiating in waves through his entire body and lodging itself as a lump in his throat. When he felt deft fingers massaging his scalp Thorin couldn’t choke back a low moan that was uncomfortably broken around the edges. Dwalin tightened his hold on him and said something Thorin couldn’t quite make sense of; he half heard, half felt his voice vibrate beneath his cheek and the sound got mixed up with the steady thud of Dwalin's heartbeat. 

Thorin lost the track of time. For all that he knew it might have been ten minutes or then half a lifetime later when Dwalin shifted under him with the first signs of discomfort.

“Move,” he groaned and tapped Thorin on the arm. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Thorin did as he was bid and rolled off him. He sniggered shamelessly when Dwalin twitched and cursed heavily as blood rushed back into his limbs and without doubt tingled like bites from a thousand ants set for revenge.

“Shut it,” Dwalin growled and aimed a half-hearted swipe at him. “And have some fucking sympathy, I’m suffering here.”

“Right,” Thorin snorted. “Suffering. Sure.”

“Do you doubt me or are you just that cruel?”

“Neither,” Thorin said and kissed his forehead briefly. “Feel better?”

“Not really, but I’ll live,” Dwalin smiled. “Thank you.”

Thorin hummed wordlessly in response and kissed him again, on the cheek this time and for a moment longer than before. Dwalin brushed a lock of his hair aside and mirrored the gesture. His lips pressed carefully on Thorin’s skin; the huff of warm breath tickled almost as much as his whiskers did. Dwalin pulled back and looked at him with a dreadfully soft look in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dwalin said, never taking his eyes off him. “Sleep?”

“We should. C’me here.”

Dwalin shuffled closer and Thorin curled up to his side with a content sigh. The night was perhaps a bit too warm for them to sleep so close to each other, but he didn’t particularly care. Neither did Dwalin judging by the way he draped himself around him.

“It's just,” Dwalin muttered into his hair. “I’m glad. About this.”

“So am I,” Thorin said and reached for his hand in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

When Thorin dreamt of death he always dreamt of fire.

Fire descended from the sky with the high-pitched roar of the Dragon. Shards of molten stone sprayed from cracks in the Gate and huge boulders followed after; the Mountain groaned in agony and her children screamed and the air was full of the stench of burning flesh and hair – and the air was full of the stench of burning flesh and hair and the rotting corpses of their enemies as they trod paths into the gory mud, slipping on their way to light the funeral pyres for their countless dead. Echoes of their dying screams still rang in their ears as the fire rose high, high, high up in the sky…

But no matter how many times he startled awake from the memory of fire, it had no power to change the waking world.

That year death was the bitter cold that crept silently from the North one night late in summer and crystallized in millions of tiny diamonds on unharvested fields.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin woke to a sudden shock of cold making contact with his skin and for a while he was lost, with no idea what was happening to him, or when, or why. Then he registered the warm body beside him, and the simple, polished granite ceiling above him, and he knew where he was. And _what_ it was.

“Move your damn feet,” Thorin growled groggily at Dwalin who had pressed his icy toes on his leg.

“M’ feet’re cold. You’re warm,” Dwalin mumbled as if that explained everything.

To him, it probably did.

Thorin tried to wiggle away from the clammy toes, but Dwalin was doing an admirable job of clinging on to him. He wouldn’t budge no matter what, and finally Thorin had to grudgingly concede defeat.

Luckily the rest of Dwalin was warm as his feet were not. Thorin pushed his hands under Dwalin’s shirt and buried his face into the crook of his neck, soaking up the the heat radiating from his body by the way of compensation for having been so rudely awakened.

“Leech,” Dwalin murmured.

“Look who’s talking,“ Thorin grumbled and pressed himself even closer to him.

Dwalin was just conscious enough to lift his head briefly from the pillow. He nuzzled Thorin’s hair and tugged his ear-cuff affectionately with his teeth before dropping back off into sleep.

Thorin tried to doze off as well, but despite the living furnace that was once again fast asleep beside him he felt more wide awake by the minute, instead of comfortably drowsy as he might have expected. At what he presumed was the crack of dawn he gave up at last and freed himself from Dwalin’s embrace and slipped out of their bed. He made sure to spread his share of blankets over Dwalin. The morning truly was chilly and it would be even more so for one sleeping alone.

Thorin padded into the kitchen as silently as he could so as not to wake the others. It wouldn’t do any harm to start the day’s work an hour or two sooner than planned, and besides, if he were the one to make breakfast he should be able to talk his way out of dinner duty. In theory at least.

He grabbed the coffee pot and made a face at the day-old grounds in there. Whoever had finished the pot yesterday evening - and he had an unpleasant feeling he might have been the culprit himself - had failed to clean it. 

Typical.

He poured a bit of water in the pot and swirled it over as he made his way to the door. The poorer children of men from the nearby village working as pig- or goat-herders would often come to beg for spare peelings of onion and turnip and potato to feed to their animals, but coffee was something that didn’t agree with livestock. Thorin had just enough experience with both kinds of creatures that he shuddered at the thought of artificially invigorated rams and hogs.

Groggy thoughts of farm animals and garbage disposal were blown aside in an instant when he opened the door to empty the coffee pot. Cold air smacked him in the face and jolted away the last remnants of sleep left in him.

The world outside was painted white with hoarfrost.

Thorin breathed out a voiceless protest, startled, _horrified_ , and his gasp misted in a pale cloud before vanishing in the frosty morning air.

*

Children were unanimously delighted by the sudden change in the weather. They sprang out from their houses yelling joyously about snow and spent the day running circles in the frosty white grass, throwing themselves down to slide along the slippery hill they used for sledding in winter. Had it been a normal year most adults would’ve been likely to join them - there was something about the first cold days that turned everyone into little Dwarflings again no matter how grey their beards might have been. But now the adults kept glancing at the sky eyes full of worry. Even the Sun didn’t seem to have the power to chase away the cold; the frost persisted throughout the afternoon and well into the night, and into the next day besides. When the cold held even three days after, the smiles froze on the faces of even the most optimistic among their kind.

They might not have been farmers but neither were they idiots and they knew fully well what crops freezing on the fields would mean both for them and the surrounding countryside.

The situation wouldn’t have been so dire back in Erebor, Thorin brooded uselessly, checking their food stores for the third time that week. There had been a dreadfully cold and long winter when he had been but a child, too young to remember it in truth. But he remembered enough of his lessons about precautions to know that in Erebor a failed harvest in the surrounding lands meant dull food instead of no food at all. The granaries and cold rooms were stocked to last three years of siege and they would sustain all the Dwarrows in the Mountain over a winter with little trouble. In addition the traders from the East and the South had arrived every year, some even during winter if the roads held, and they had been ever delighted for a chance to exchange their dried fruits and nuts and chocolates for a little more of the Longbeard gold than they had originally expected to.

Trade caravans arrived to the Blue Mountains as well, but the clan Longbeard settled there no longer had enough coin to spare for exotic fares any more than they had enough to keep sufficient stores of grain and jerky that’d last them through a year without a new harvest to replenish them. Thorin kept the emergency stores to the best of his ability, mostly with his own money and that of those who wished to contribute, but there was only so much he could do in his current position. He had no right to collect taxes even from his own people, and if he’d had enough gold to buy himself the legal rights of a local Lord he would’ve easily had enough to feed his people with meat and cream throughout the winter - with some left over to hire bodyguards to protect himself from his subjects and relatives coming to explain to him _in detail_ what exactly they thought of the idea of him swearing fealty to the Firebeards and Broadbeams.

As it was, most families among the exiles saw for themselves, and even on a good year they usually found themselves having to ration heavily in spring.

This wouldn’t be a good year. It wouldn’t even have the grace of being a simple bad year. It became evident that this would be an utterly _disastrous_ year when over a week after the first frost the weather still hadn’t mellowed but only grown colder.

Then the ravens started flying in from his people who’d travelled out to sell their crafts and skills further inland from the Blue Mountains, all of them were bearing grim and grimmer news. There was nothing to be bought for any price from the Halfling fields which they could usually rely on. It was equally cold over there, and since the Halflings apparently planted more sensitive crops than the Men living by the roots of the Mountains the ravages of the frost were even worse for them. It was much the same in the lands around Bree, Balin summed the situation up to him, shaking his head with uncharacteristically open disgust and worry. In Bree and _everywhere_ within reach of rumour and ravens’ wings. Winter had come months early and the crops had largely failed in all of Eriador, and likely in Rhovanion as well.

An army of hunters both Dwarven and Mannish swept the nearby forests clean of deer and other large game soon enough, and the farmers cut down their barley, oats and rye when it became apparent they would never ripen, in hopes that the raw grain would feed their animals if not themselves. They dug up their neeps and other roots and were heard to offer prayers of gratitude over their turnips which had been harvested already. The tiny and still green potatoes they had to abandon to rot in the fields.

When Men had hauled the last of the pitiful harvest in to their stores the atmosphere around the settlement shifted from panicky to extremely tense. Lads were seen standing guard over the storehouses with hunting spears and pitchforks close at hand, and most of them didn’t bother to conceal their suspicion towards any Dwarf that wandered in too close.

Maybe they did the same to their other neighbours too, to those who didn’t have money to spare, or those who had sown grain on their fields instead of turnips and lost everything.

Thorin didn’t stick around to watch and find out.

The relations between Dwarves and Men in the Blue Mountains had been peaceful and even friendly for as long as the Longbeards had been settled there, and it surprised Thorin how much it _bothered_ him now to see it all cooled down so soon. He was no stranger to being treated with hostility - the Maker knows he would’ve been grateful for something as mild as a suspicious cold shoulder during their wandering years - and truly he had no business being troubled by it. Or surprised. Even if he had managed to forget, somehow, he knew better than that.

 _And so should they_ , Thorin thought bitterly, pointedly refusing to look at a pair of beardless boys who gripped their dwarf-made spears with white knuckles as he passed by. _If we ever decided to forego all honour and raid their stores by force there’s exactly **nothing** they could do to stop us_.

Thorin knew he wasn’t by far the only dwarf who was angry, who was utterly _infuriated_ by the idea that their lives hung on a balance because plants wouldn’t grow in the cold, but that proved to be a very small comfort.

The fear of impending starvation hung in the air like poisonous miasma, thicker by every passing cold day. 

*

Despite everything, surprisingly many farmers _would_ sell food for those who were willing and able to pay for it dearly, five times the usual price or sometimes even more than that. Thorin didn’t understand why they were willing to part with their roots and preserves of summer apples and blueberries at all until he saw the first family boarding shut their doors and windows and heading South with their valuables.

“They’re going to the harbours if I’m guessing right,” Bofur said when he saw Thorin eyeing another family leaving their homes. He had wandered into the forge that evening when Thorin was just finishing cleaning up, fiddling with his hat like he wanted something to do with his hands and for once not wearing a smile. He seemed delighted to get an opening for a conversation, which was strange as well. Bofur usually didn’t need one.

“Not to the fancy Elvish harbours, mind you, but to the others that get used by Mannish traders who’d rather not deal with that lot,” Bofur prattled on. “There’s a lot of folks from South Gondor and Harad who don’t care for Elves at all, maybe because they don’t care so much for them heirs of the Sea-Kings either, those who speak Elvish and half of ‘em have Elvish blood in them too if the tales are true. Anyway where was I? Right, them who can afford it are buying a ship-passage to the South before the winter comes for real, and I’m guessing a fair number as can’t will go the same way with their ponies or cows or just their own good two feet.”

Luckily Bofur didn’t seem to care that their talk was one-sided, to put it mildly. He was more than capable of running a conversation all by himself, though in this instance it might’ve been that he didn’t notice Thorin’s silence since he was chewing his lip thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the distance. He looked downright distressed by his usual standards.

“There was an early winter a couple of decades before I was born. Bifur was a child in his thirties so he remembers something, and me Ma told me stories before she died,” Bofur continued after a while. “It was a terrible one, lasted for months and snow just kept falling until it was higher than a Dwarf, two Dwarves even, and there wasn’t much food to be had. Then came the Orcs, and it wasn’t just a raiding band but a small army. Nothing to compare to the Wars, of course, but they took some beating back and a fair number of good folks died, and they say the Men lost entire families to hunger even before that. There’s no one among them old enough to recall, but I bet they’ve got stories too and they don’t wanna risk another winter like that and I can’t blame them for one bit.”

Bofur glanced at him briefly, probably to check if he was about to lose his temper over the conversation. It was fairly common knowledge that the matter of leaving one’s home was something of a sore subject for Thorin Oakenshield, so he supposed it was fair enough that Bofur would be cautious. 

Thorin bristled, but waved for him to carry on.

“And...” Bofur went on, hesitating like he never did. “I don’t know what your folks are planning on doing, but we were talking for a bit last night and we thought we ought to be leaving too, Bombur and me. And some of our cousins as well. Hedra is staying with the little ones, seeing as they’re-”

“Too young to travel,” Thorin finished for him in clipped tones.

Bedur was three years older than Fíli and he was Hedra’s and Bombur’s eldest, much too young to travel in search for work.

(Dís had been around that age when they’d fled from the Dragon, and others had been younger still. Too many children who’d made it out of the Mountain had never gotten much older at all.)

“Aye, they sure are,” Bofur nodded. “Anyways, Hedra is staying with the little ones and there oughta be mining work for me Bombur in the South. We’ll be taking Bifur’s toys too, there’ll be no selling them here this year and he’s staying home too. We decided it’s better that way in the end, ‘cause Men don’t really like looking at war wounds, and they’d be likely to turn us all away if they got too heated up by looking at his axe and by him not speaking to them. So Bifur’ll help Hedra with the little ones. They all adore him, it’s a blessing when you think about it, he could quiet down an entire brood just by-”

“Bofur,” Thorin interrupted him impatiently. “Did you have a _point_ you were trying to get to?”

“Just getting there,” Bofur continued, hardly missing a beat though Thorin hadn’t exactly been polite. “So I’m taking that at least one of you’ll be staying here with the boys-”

“Dís and me both.”

“Great! And what I came to ask was that if you’d be staying – which you are then – if you could lend a hand to our folks if there’s a need? Like I said Bifur’ll give Hedra aid as much as he can, but...”

Bofur gestured around a little helplessly and his mouth twisted to an expression that on any other dwarf would’ve been called a grimace. Somehow his face didn’t quite seem to manage that well enough to earn the name, and he just looked miserable.

“Of course we’ll help,” Thorin promised easily. “And there really wasn’t any need to ask.”

Nor was there any need for Bofur to finish his explanation. Bifur _always_ helped everyone as much as he could, but the question was how much he would be able to help come winter, and how much he’d be in need of assistance himself. The axe bothered him from time to time all around the year, but he was by far the worst off when it was cold and he would often spend days without setting a foot outside, or even getting out of bed.

“Oh aye, you’re good friends and all, but it’s still proper to ask and all and that’s a relief to hear!” Effortless smile found its way back to Bofur's face and he clapped Thorin on the back as they began to make their way to the crossroads between the Longbeard settlement and the much older Brodbeam village. “So... do I take that some of your folks are leaving too?”

“Those with sufficient crafts are almost all going,” Thorin said a little stiffly, hoping to convey that that he didn’t necessarily wish to continue on this topic.

“Balin and Dwalin?” Bofur asked, either oblivious to Thorin’s social cues or just curious enough to ignore them.

Thorin nodded curtly, and since he saw no way out of the conversation he reluctantly explained further:

“Balin’s going to our cousin in the East. Dwalin’s going South on a ship.”

“A ship?” Bofur sounded scandalised. The Broadbeams and Firebeards were notoriously mistrustful of the Sea, and had been ever since Belegost and Nogrod drowned at the end of the First Age. “Well that... will be some tale to tell afterwards! But I’ll be heading home, you give my best to your folks if we don’t see again before they leave, and even if we _do_ see them it can’t hurt, so...” 

Bofur waved at him cheerfully before jogging down the path leading to the village of the western Dwarves.

Thorin sighed a little. He liked Bofur, he honestly did. It was almost impossible to _not_ like Bofur, but by the Maker all his boundless energy and cheer and unwavering optimistic enthusiasm made him _exhausting_ to be around sometimes. Especially when Thorin couldn’t for the life of him comprehend what in the world there was to be so cheerful about.

Yes, he had told the truth about how Dwalin would, indeed, be going South with a group of other Dwarves hired as guards on a merchant ship. A spicer of Harad descent with familiar connections to their ship captains lived in the village, and Thorin had managed to convince him that it’d be well worth the price of a voyage South to have Dwarves on the ship who could serve both as smiths and as warriors. He had sold his people’s skills for much too cheap, in truth, but they were only a few months short from desperate and nothing could beat a ship in speed.

What he had failed to mention was that Dwalin wasn't happy about the arrangement in the slightest. Quite the opposite in fact. He had been livid at the very suggestion of leaving while Thorin and Dís and the boys stayed behind, and Balin travelled East. 

They had had spectacular fights about it; the latest just this morning, which Thorin had eventually cut short by _ordering_ Dwalin to go. 

He’d felt awful about reminding Dwalin about his oath of fealty like that, but he hadn’t seen any other option. The money they had been putting aside for building an extra room in the house so that Balin could live under the same roof with them had been transformed into an emergency supply fund as fast as they could blink. A part of it went to buying food from local farmers and the fishers by the seaside, but the rest... There weren’t many Thorin would’ve trusted to journey South with their silver, and then back to North again with all the emergency supplies their money could buy. Especially since he was sending Balin East and it would've been cruel to separate Fíli and Kíli from Dís when they were still so young. 

It _had_ to be Dwalin.

Thorin rubbed his face, almost overwhelmed by sudden exhaustion when he arrived to the front door of their little house. 

Necessary or not, Dwalin’s cold and calm “As you command, _your Majesty_!“ had cut deeper than all the shouting combined.

But Thorin had no choice, and neither had Dwalin.


End file.
